


A Matter of Time

by intrepidheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom Sam, Dean cuts Sam's hair, Denial of Feelings, Dirty Talk, First Kiss, First Time, Flashbacks, Fluff, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Memories, Non-Graphic Smut, PDA, Pre-Series, Protective Dean, Stanford Era, Stargazing, Swearing, Top Dean, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:19:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4335356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrepidheart/pseuds/intrepidheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam leaves Dean a voicemail where he names the one thing they were never supposed to name between them. Well, names it as well as one possibly can in a drunk dial. The chain of events and ongoing game of telephone tag that follows dredges up some old memories and feelings that Dean's been fighting for a while now, and he'd really rather not fucking deal with any of that, thanks very much. </p><p>Then Dean gets careless and everything comes to a head. After all, it was only a matter of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Time

Sam started it.

He always started it, even when they were kids. Always the first to start nagging about being in the car for fourteen hours straight or how if he ate another bag of Funyuns he was going to vomit in Dean's shoes while he was asleep or how he didn't understand why Dad couldn't leave more money than a crumpled twenty to last them the week. And every time, without fail, Dean would smack him upside the head and tell him to shut his trap (which then would lead to Sam punching Dean in the arm, then Dean would have to get Sam in a chokehold and they never left the scuffle with any fewer than six bruises each).

This time is different, though. It's different because Sam isn't in the long leather seat next to him, or sitting across from him at the diner, or lounging in the motel room bed to Dean's right. Sam is in California. Sam is at Stanford.

So when Sam starts this, when he names the one fucking thing that was never supposed to be named, Dean can't punch his brother's mouth into silence. He can't do anything except sit there and listen to Sam shatter that glass wall, the one Dean had so carefully built, the one that let Dean see but not touch (never touch), and feel each shard cut its way into Dean's heart until it's made more out of clear, broken pieces than muscle.

-

"Hey. Dickface."

Dean blinks and pulls the cheap cell phone away to stare at the screen displaying the currently playing voicemail from the unknown number that called at four a.m. while Dean had been getting his weekly three hour sleep. He hadn’t recognized the number, hadn’t bothered to look up what state the area code was for. Now Dean wishes he had. Closing his eyes, Dean brings the speaker back to his ear and listens to his brother's voice for the first time in two and a half years.

There's scuffling on the other end of the line, a crackle and a faint cuss as Sam trips over something, if the clatter of an object to the floor in the background is anything to go by.

"You know-If you even-What you-" Sam is struggling valiantly to form a coherent sentence in the first few seconds after he pronounced his endearing new nickname for Dean.

Dean leans forward, elbows planted deep in the top of his knees as he uses his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Damn it, Sammy, no. Not a drunk dial.

"You didn't stop me." Sam's voice is rough and hewn like a rock quarry, all jagged and digging into the sensitive parts of Dean's skin and soul. "You did’n' even try, you juh, you just, you fuckin'-" Sam's slurs fade for a moment. The slosh of liquid, the resolute slam of a bottle on wood, two shot glasses following soon after. "You didn't even try, Dean."

Dean lets himself fall backwards, his back hitting the mattress beneath him, the fingers once clasping his nose now spreading to cover the entirety of his face, as if he could dig into his skull and claw out the memory of him standing next to the Impala as Sam climbed onto that fucking bus, that stupid fucking Greyhound that took the other half of Dean thousands of miles away and left Dean with the realization that, lo and behold, a normal functioning human being needs a whole heart to get the blood moving in his veins and make his lungs expand and contract (who fucking knew?). It's only a small reassurance that Sam seems to be on the same page, because this? This feeling of trying to stay afloat without the first idea how to swim and arms that weigh like twenty tons of lead, this feeling of not being able to get enough oxygen in his system, like the entire world is covered in a haze of smoke and chemicals that are eating away every healthy cell in his lungs? Fuck. Dean wouldn't wish it on anyone.

Sam is quiet in the message now, just breathing, in out in out in out. Too fast to be calm. Dean's body matches the rhythm of Sam's lungs from one thousand one hundred and fifty three miles away in Colorado, in out in out in out. It’s just like those times where Dean thinks he can feel Sam’s heart pounding against the other side of his chest, like those moments when Sam was fourteen and Dean was eighteen and Sam had fallen from the top branch of a pine tree (fucking idiot, Dean told him not to do it, too high, Sam, you’ll break your fucking neck, but no, fucking Sam) and Dean had yanked Sam to his feet, pulled him into a rib-cracking hug and just felt the thrum of Sam’s life force etching itself in the space right next to Dean’s. Now Dean is straining to listen to Sam breathing and he can remember what it felt like to fall asleep with those soft inhales and exhales only two feet away. Dean’s hand drags down the length of his face, pulling at the skin and stubble until he finishes palming away the clamminess that had settled just above his pores.

“Dean.”

It’s a whisper, a plea, a prayer. It makes Dean’s throat curdle and tighten and block off his air. Swallowing doesn’t help. He needs a fucking drink.

“I jus’-” A blustered sigh, shuffling, a whoomp of air. Sam’s voice is muffled now, like his face is pressed into a pillow. “Just want you here, Dean.”

The room wasn’t spinning a minute ago.

“Want you here.”

Dean sits up, crouches forward, presses his fist to his mouth. Can barely breathe. Crushes the cheap rectangle of plastic so tightly to his ear that it hurts, is probably going to go numb, fuck it, doesn’t matter as long as Sam’s words keep leaking into Dean’s brain.

“Want you.” There’s no mistaking it, the way it’s practically a moan, Sam’s voice hitching above the rustle of sheets in the background, Jesus Christ, Sam.

“Fuck.” The word breaches Dean’s lips, clipped and hard and out before he even wants to think about it because fuck, Sammy, fuck.

“Dean, I w-” Sam’s voice is vulnerable and shaking and then it’s gone, the clicking noise of a disconnected call jarring Dean’s eyes open so he can stare at the carpet stain shaped like Great Britain next to his left foot. His phone hits the wall across the room and he's out the door before it can fall to the ground.

An hour later and Dean’s back in the motel (with interest, he's halfway through a 40 of Jack Daniels), sprawled on his bed with the neck of the bottle in one hand and his phone in the other, tapping the hard plastic against his temple. Don’t know if that’s to knock Sam’s words (want you) out of his head or even deeper into his brain. Doesn’t matter that sunrise was two hours ago, it’s 5 o’clock somewhere or some motherfucking thing.

Dean closes his eyes, feels the syrupy blanket of alcohol settling on his limbs, smudging out the edges that Sam’s confession left behind, and Dean lets the low hiss of tires on pavement outside lull his vision to black.

-

It’s just over a week later, when Dean’s wrapping up a rugaru case in Santa Fe, that he gets the second voicemail.

“Hey, uh-”

Hesitant. Clears his throat. There’s dull chatter in the background. Probably standing in the courtyard (Dean only drove by the Stanford campus twice and it was right when Sammy had started, and no, Sam didn’t know Dean had ever come within a 200 mile radius of Palo Alto, okay?) because, after all, it is 1 o'clock on a Monday.

“I saw your name on my recently called. Don’t remember doing it, uh, don’t-well, I don't really remember that night in general. I, look, if I said anything-”

Sam never was any good at lying when it came to Dean. Good to see the time they've spent apart hasn't changed that.

There's a huff of breath. Dean can see Sam’s bangs flying up above his eyebrows before settling back against his forehead. His hair’s probably too long, always needed to be dragged to the hairdresser, this kid.

“Nevermind. I shouldn’t have called.” There’s a pause so long that Dean, a perfect example of life imitating art, a statue in this case with his hand frozen on the handle to the driver’s side of the Impala, thinks Sam hung up and ended the message. Then Sam sucks in a deep breath, murmurs out “Bye, Dean” and then he really is gone, voice wiped away by a quick click and an automated tone telling Dean he has the option to save or erase this message.

Dean hits save.

He doesn’t allow himself to recall the memory until he’s at the nearest bar and on his third drink, his eyes following the circle of brown liquor that slips and slides up the inside of the glass as he moves it back and forth with slow, deliberate movements.

-

“No, Dean!” Sam’s thirteen and, while his voice still hasn’t fully dropped into the deeper tone Dean knows is on its way, he sure as hell can bellow when he wants to. A knee to the gut, hands scrabbling and shoving against Dean’s chest like some wild animal, (a ferret, probably, because Sam is all skinny and gangly, yeah, Sam’s a fucking ferret) then an elbow to the cheek.

“Jesus Chr-Sam, calm down!” Dean practically has to climb onto Sam’s back and belly flop him onto the kitchen tile to get him to stop struggling, and even that takes all of Dean’s strength. “It’s just a fucking haircut!”

“Stop swearing or I’ll tell Dad!” The weak threat is high-pitched and muffled from where Dean is grinding Sam’s face into the grout.

“That’s not gonna get you out of this, Sammy. C’mon, it’s just a trim, you big baby.”

Dean knows Sam’s gonna take insult, because it’s Sam and he’s a teenager, thanks very much, and there it is, Sam bucks and elbows his way out of Dean’s grip to scramble up onto his feet, crossing his arms as he glares down at his big brother.

“I’m not a baby, Dean. I’m thirteen now.”

“Yeah? How ‘bout you act your age then? Sit your ass in that chair and let me cut your stupid hair.”

Sam turns his sulking gaze to the chair Dean dragged in front of the sink twenty minutes ago, which was what started this whole scuffle in the first place. The kid’s hair is everywhere, long enough that Sam is always swiping it out of his eyes or just allows it brush his eyelashes and make him go blind, the idiot.

It takes another minute of silent icy looks until Sam concedes, letting his butt hit the seat of the cheap plastic as he stares resolutely ahead and not at Dean whatsoever. Dean’s standing nearby with the kitchen scissors (he couldn’t lift the hairdresser’s when he went to the salon last weekend, too crowded on top of the fact that Sam threatened to scream bloody murder if Dean even tried, God, Dean hates this kid) so they’ll have to do for now.

“Get your head in here, Sam, you know the drill.”

Sam grumbles under his breath but tips his head back into the basin of the kitchen sink, eyes roaming the ceiling as Dean runs the faucet until it’s warm enough for Dean to start catching the water in cupped hands and widening his fingers enough for it to all run over Sam’s hair. Swirls of brown soak up the water, turning the strands an even darker shade as Dean lets it spill from between his fingers, slipping past Sam’s ears and over his forehead, one rivlet trailing down the line of his eyebrow. Sam’s eyes close and Dean watches his breathing even out, calm now that Dean’s fingers are kneading into his scalp.

Dean watches his hands as they push the strands back from Sam’s smooth forehead so they can get wet like the rest of his head, before moving down to tap twice on the back of Sam’s skull to indicate that he should lift. Sam complies, which lets Dean run water over the last few dry hairs, before relaxing back down. Dean reaches over and nabs the shampoo from the counter by his elbow, pouring it into his palm before he scrubs it into Sam’s temples. The suds spring up immediately and Dean forges a ten-fingered path down behind the curve of Sam’s ears to get the back of his head before pushing up to the top, working the shampoo into a lather. A couple quiet minutes of this pass before the skin on Dean’s cheeks starts prickling, so he glances down to find Sam’s eyes locked on his face. There’s something soft there in the depths of his eyes, poorly disguised fondness with a hint of awe, and just complete, overwhelming, all-consuming love, and it kind of punches the air out of Dean’s lungs, how genuine each emotion is, all of them glimmering under the surface of Sam’s expressive hazel irises.

Dean returns his gaze to the task at hand, catching water in his palms to rinse away the shampoo on Sam's head. He takes his time, watching as the soapy lather spirals in a watery tornado down the drain. Nudging off the faucet, Dean grabs the towel and drapes it over Sam’s face, effectively covering his eyes which are still looking at Dean like he has the answer to every question in the universe scribed into his skin.

“Dry up, kiddo, it’s time for the fun part.”

Dean can see the towel actually lift from the area around Sam’s mouth where he exhales a loud sigh. Sam sits up in his seat, viciously rubs the towel all over his scalp, then tosses it onto the counter behind him. Dean picks up the scissors and knocks his toe against one of Sam’s ankles, a wordless request. Sam shifts his legs open so Dean can step forward between them. Combing his fingers through the damp locks, Dean starts with Sam’s bangs. The sound of snipping soon is the only thing hovering in the air around them besides their breaths. Dean can feel the hot wash of air from Sam’s mouth against his stomach through the cotton of his shirt. Sam flinches when Dean cuts near his left ear and Dean nearly slices the top of the pink skin because of the movement, a few choice swear words falling from his mouth.

“Damn it, Sam, hold still or you’re gonna be missing an appendage!”

“Oh, yeah, that really makes me less nervous, Dean, thanks,” Sam snaps back, his heel stomping on the top of Dean’s foot. Dean kicks his shin and chucks the back of his head.

“Will you shut up and trust me?” Dean growls, grabbing Sam’s chin to yank his head to the side to get a better angle around his ear. He can feel the way Sam’s jaw tenses under his fingers and the nervous shifting of Sam’s thighs against the outside of Dean’s knees so he sighs and instead tilts his brother’s face up to look at him. Sam’s lips are a thin line and his brow is furrowed. “Sam. I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise. You just gotta keep still.”

Sam’s eyes flick between both of Dean’s, searching, and apparently he finds what he is looking for, because his eyes soften (trust pouring out of his pupils in waves, God, this fucking kid) and he nods a little into Dean’s palm.

“Okay.”

Dean gently pushes Sam’s head to the side again and lets go. As a warning to let Sam know he was about to make a cut, Dean rubs the knuckle of his forefinger over the curve of Sam’s ear. Dean pretends not to notice the shiver that dances down Sam’s body.

By the time Dean’s done, Sam’s practically dozing into Dean’s stomach and the hem of Dean’s shirt is caught between Sam’s forefinger and middle finger where he'd been rubbing the fabric for comfort. It makes Dean’s heart pull in a way that verges on painful so he has to pry Sam’s hand away and tap on his little brother’s cheek to wake him.

Dean doesn’t want to talk about his heart and the way it starts to pound when Sam’s eyes turn up to meet his.

-

The memory fades as Dean sets down his seventh glass of whiskey. The liquor doesn’t even burn down his throat anymore; it’s more like a smoldering caress, kissing its way past Dean’s lungs to settle low in his stomach.

Blonde and Blonder two stools down send him some tequila shots. Those burn.

Usually he’d stay for another round, loop his arms around their shoulders, throw them the smirk that would have their nails in his shirt and their panties on the floor in three seconds flat, but not tonight. Can’t be tonight.

Tossing crumpled bills on the sticky wood bar, Dean pats the counter twice as his goodbye to the bartender and nods his thanks to the girls, who don’t hide their disappointment very well. Dean can’t find it in himself to care.

The motel is only a few blocks down the road and Dean is just a little (moderately) drunk so he eases the Impala onto the black pavement with a great deal of care. Can’t be fucked to walk, can’t be fucked to sleep in the backseat. Only so much can happen between Point A and Point B. He makes it without incident and his parking is only a little crooked, but fuck it, there’s no one else in the stupid parking lot, so Dean elbows his motel door open and chains it shut behind him. Shrugging off his jacket, Dean tosses his keys, phone and wallet onto the small table by the front window before toeing off his boots.

Everything feels muffled as Dean’s eyes light on his cell, bad idea, just leave it there, his fingers are inching forward on their own accord to pick it up, don’t do it, the screen is lighting up as his thumb seeks the most recent caller, don’t fucking do it Dean, then there’s a soft trilling. Dean closes his eyes. Swaying on his feet, Dean lifts the phone to his ear, the ringing becoming more clear now that it isn’t so far away.

Belatedly, Dean realizes just how stupid he is, it’s not the ass crack of dawn, Sam could actually pick up the phone like a normal person, Dean’s not prepared to actually talk, Jesus, he needs to hang up, except then there’s Sam’s voice saying “Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, thanks” before beep! and it’s showtime.

Dean opens his eyes and stares at his bed, still rocking back and forth a little. What the fuck is he supposed to say?

“Hey...”

Dean trails off, squints at the pale yellow duvet of the motel bed. He called Dean ‘dickface’ in his first message, can’t let him get away with that.

“Fucker.” Nice one, Dean, got him good.

“Should never do a drunk dial, kid, rookie mistake. Gotta lock your phone in your dresser or somethin', I mean-” Jesus, what is he saying? “What are we, in high school?”

Dean stops talking, takes his time padding to the edge of his mattress, depresses the springs with his knees as he climbs forward before dropping down on his stomach. He gathers the pillow under his chin and stares at the headboard. His heart is thrumming in his throat and pounding in his ears and shaking his ribcage and all Dean can think about is the way his name sounded curling out of Sam’s mouth and into his ear. Dean closes his eyes again.

“Can’t say shit like that, Sammy.”

It’s a mumble because it’s Dean’s turn to confess, Dean’s turn to kick at the shattered remnants of the wall he had built up over the duration of his entire fucking life because this is Sam (Dean’s brother) but this is also Sammy (Dean’s world) and the two blur together more often than not but there’s a line, there’s a big fucking line that says Do not pass Go, Do not collect your own Sam Winchester and Dean needs to respect that. Except Sam started it, he knocked the goddamn wall down and he smudged that line, and now it’s all gone, so Dean’s free, he can slip through that small space where Sam’s shoe scuffed the line away, so here it goes.

"You can't go and just-damn it, Sam."

The anger and the hurt and the pain all washes over Dean in a tsunami and he has to suck in a breath before he drowns, the murky waters of emotions he'd really rather not deal with right now lapping at his chin.

"You didn't want me to stop you, Sam. You never wanted me to stop you. You wanted me to leave with you, wanted me to abandon Dad. I couldn't do it, Sam, you know I couldn't."

The words are turning bitter in Dean's mouth. Not good, don't like that taste. Slow down there, cowboy.

"You-"

Dean swallows. Tongue's a lot harder to move right about now. Maybe it's a sign. Shut the hell up Dean, don't take this any further Dean, quit while you're ahead Dean.

"You don't know how much it took out of me, Sam, watching you get on that goddamn bus. And you don't know how badly I want to be there right now. How badly I want to come."

Too much, too far, backpedal backpedal backpedal.

"Damn it," Dean swears softly, laying the phone face down on the bed for a moment to rub a hand over his mouth. "Goddammit."

He turns the phone over and ends the call.

-

"Then why don't you?"

Two nights later, only six seconds and four words long, Sam's third voicemail with his soft voice edged with desperation and loneliness effectively carves out Dean's entire insides with a blunt spoon.

He keeps that message too.

-

Dean can't call back, can't stand to pull his phone from his jacket pocket because it'll scald him, sear the sin into his skin.

Sam saves him the trouble, leaving a fourth voicemail six days later like he knew Dean would be too incapacitated to respond.

"It wasn't you."

He sounds sober. Sad.

"It wasn't you I was leaving. You have to know that, Dean. It was never you."

Dean knows. Somewhere deep, deep, deep the fuck down, he knows that he had nothing to do with Sam's decision to leave. But he is still a part of the life Sam abandoned, he is still a part of the family Sam wanted nothing to do with, so, really, how else is he supposed to look at it?

"It was the life, Dean. I couldn't do it anymore, couldn't stand it."

A memory brushes the back of Dean's mind, the last time Sam spoke those words to him. Not now. Not that one. Not the fuck now.

"You're what made it bearable. You're the reason I stayed for as long as I did."

Shut the hell up, Sam.

A pause, a sigh. Sam Winchester, the King of Sighs and Woe and Sad Emo Poetry, probably.

"I never wanted to leave you, Dean."

Beep. End of message. Press four if you would like to save this message, press seven to delete.

Dean punches the seven key so hard that he has to work the button back up with the tip of a butter knife three hours later.

-

"I can't do this anymore, Dean!" Sam is sixteen and full of teenage angst and is very, very close to punching a hole in the drywall of their shared room in eastern New York. "How can you be okay with Dad dropping us in a new place every two weeks? Why am I the only one who's pissed that we're treated like extra luggage instead of his fucking kids?"

Dean swears and turns away from his brother to stride into the kitchen of the house they may or may not be squatting in while Dad's working a case. He can hear Sam following, his angry footsteps trailing right behind Dean.

"Damn it, Sam, you know why. He's trying to keep us safe."

"Bullshit, Dean. Bullshit. If he wanted to keep us safe he would put us up with Pastor Jim or Bobby and not tow us around the entire country."

Dean turns and levels his glare with two equally burning hazel eyes that are just an inch or so above his own. Little brother's not so little anymore. Sam makes a noise in his throat and spins around, stomping back into their room. The door slamming shut rattles Dean's very bones.

There was something dangerous wavering in Sam's eyes that makes Dean call John and tell him that they found a case nearby, it's an easy salt and burn, Dad, yessir, I'll watch out for Sammy, no sir, we don't need backup, we'll be fine, it'll just be a couple of days, no sir, there won't be a scratch on the Impala, yessir, we'll be back before you wrap up your case, bye Dad. Dean doesn't bother to knock before he opens the bedroom door and scoops up his duffle from the ground by his bed.

"Start packing, Sammy."

Sam's brooding on the edge of his mattress with his hair in his eyes and a scowl on his mouth but he looks up sharply at Dean's command.

"What, Dad's gotta dump us someplace new?"

Dean's teeth set on edge at the sneer on his brother's face but he holds off from suckerpunching Sam in the ribs.

"No, you angsty motherfucker, I'm taking us somewhere for a couple of days. Pack your damn bag."

That makes Sam's eyebrows rise to his hairline, and after a beat, he gets to his feet and starts throwing clothes in his backpack. They're ready in less than ten (one of the perks of owning a very limited amount of personal items) and just finishing loading their bags in the backseat. Sam's bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation, all previous irritation just a faint memory blown away by the promise of Dean's surprise trip. Now he won't stop nagging Dean about where they're going, what's going on, is it just gonna be you and me, yeah Sammy, just you and me.

Once they're buckled in and Dean's pulling onto the main road, Sam gives up on grasping for information Dean won't provide (can't provide, he doesn't know where they're going, he's just gonna wing it) and sits back, content for the moment to watch the trees flash by outside the passenger window.

Dean watches him from the corner of his eye with his legs all gangly and folded up, hands tangled loosely in his lap, the tag on the back of his shirt sticking up straight like a soldier. Dean can't help but think, not for the first time, how lucky he is that he has never truly been the object of Sam's teenage frustration and inner turmoil. It's always directed at Dad or the job or the never-ending road or the shitty motels, but never Dean. No, Dean gets soft touches and laughter and teasing and kicks in the ribs. Even now, Sam is smiling at him, relaxing into Dean's fingers which have somehow made it on Sam's collar to tuck the tag away and then decided to stay and make a home out of the soft curls at the nape of Sam’s neck. Yeah, Dean's one lucky bastard.

It's the billboard that promotes cottages and camping sites just outside of Port Ontario that catches Dean's eye and makes him cut across two lanes to get off at the next exit. Forty minutes later, they're pulling the Impala onto a dirt road that takes them deep into the woods lining the shore of the lake. Here and there, driveways attach to their path, leading to cottages dotted with cars that belong to vacationing families for the weekend. Dean keeps driving. At the end, with the last driveway a good ten minutes behind them, they find the final cabin on the road void of life, the windows drawn and the open air garage empty. Seems as good a sign as any.

"Dean?" Sam's eyes are wide and hopeful and disbelieving and holding Dean in some kind of paralyzing gaze that screams hero worship. Dean ignores the twist of heat deep in his stomach.

"Got your lock pick?" Dean makes himself smirk back as he opens his door. Sam's out of the car in record time, hauling out his bag and lock pick kit that Dean got him for his fourteenth birthday before sprinting up to the front porch. He's inside in less than a minute, disappearing into the depth of the cabin to make sure that they're truly alone. Dean knows they're in the clear when he hears a very loud, very Sam whoop of joy.

The next few minutes is Dean sending Sam into a flurry of scrounging around the cabin to see if there is any loose change or leftover food in the cabinets. The oh-so-thoughtful owners had a spare 50 dollar bill tucked behind the flour jar, which Dean happily pockets before telling Sam to inspect the rest of the place while he goes to get them some food. Dean might take the dirt road a little quicker than he should because the image of Sam's face radiating happiness is good enough incentive to have Dean itching to get back as soon as possible.

Armed with an eight pack of beer and enough groceries for a two day binge of all things junk food, Dean turns the Impala into the garage half an hour later. Gathering everything into his arms, Dean yells for Sam to get the front door, damn it, he can't turn a doorknob with his foot. The wood parts from the doorframe, letting Dean inside the cool of the cabin before he pads into the kitchen and offloads everything in his grasp. Throwing the essentials into the fridge, Dean ignores the rest and spins Sam around by his shoulders to push him towards the back porch.

"Dean, what are you doing?"

"Sam, it's hot as all hell and there's a goddamn lake out there, what do you think I’m doing?"

Turning to catch Dean's eyes over his shoulder, Sam grins toothily and breaks away from Dean's fingers to sprint out the back door, his shirt landing on the slope down to the dock followed by his pants only a moment later.

"Bet I can make the biggest cannonball!" Dean challenges, shucking off his own shirt and jeans as he bounds after his brother, laughing as Sam leaps off the end of the wooden dock in his underwear with limbs flailing before tucking into a ball, an enormous fountain of water surging up into the air after his impact. Dean makes it to the very edge of the now wet wood, staring down at Sam as he breaks the surface, gasping with laughter.

"You look like a drowned rat."

“You look like you’re too dry.”

An evil smile breaks across Sam’s face before he's lurching forward through the water and reaching up (oh shit), his fingers tight and secure around Dean's ankle, then he pulls and all Dean can do is swallow a huge mouthful of air before he's surrounded by a wall of cold water. Kicking up to the surface, Dean treads with one arm and wipes the water from his eyes with his other hand.

Blinking against the sunlight reflecting on the calm of the lake, Dean finds his brother floating just a foot in front of him. Sam’s eyes are doing the thing again, where they’re all deep and soulful and boring into Dean’s hard enough that he can't breathe right (his lungs feel like they're shrinking, why do they keep doing that?). Dean's about to say something to break Sam’s concentration, because really, Dean’s pretty but he’s not that pretty, when something keeps him quiet, something tells him that this has nothing to do with the way Dean looks when he's wet. This is something much bigger, something that is settling over them like a wool blanket on a winter night.

There’s a trail of water sliding from one of the multitude of wet strands of hair drooping onto Sam’s forehead, slipping down the curve of his cheekbone. Dean can’t seem to stop watching it, the droplet skimming past the corner of Sam’s mouth to disappear under his jaw. It takes a moment for him to realize he’s blatantly staring at his brother’s face, which is when Dean blinks and quickly meets Sam’s eyes again. He’s observing Dean quietly, just keeping himself afloat as he holds Dean’s gaze. Then there’s a push of movement underwater. Dean can feel Sam's foot hook around his right leg and slowly slide down the back of his calf, the water creating a thin, slick barrier against the skin on skin. Dean's treading movements stutter and he dips a little lower into the water than he expects. The moment is brittle and intense, and Dean knows that the goosebumps rising across his shoulders aren’t from the breeze passing over them.

Breaking the tension, Dean sends a wave of lake water crashing into Sam’s face before paddling out of the possible retaliation zone. A splashing war ensues, that serious moment between them forgotten, and their afternoon becomes one of kicking water in each other’s eyes and shoving each other off the dock and floating on their backs to stare up at the clear blue sky until the treetops start to drag the sun down behind them with dark fingers. It’s all exactly what Dean wanted to give Sam. Maybe he knew what the look was in Sam’s eyes, how fed up he was, how ready he was to get the hell out of Dodge, and God only knows if he was planning to bring Dean along or leave him behind, but Dean wasn’t gonna give them a chance to find out.

Dusk is creeping in, smearing the sky in royal purples and blues, the stars beginning to wink overhead as Dean and Sam slosh their way to shore and back up the path to the back porch. Sam keeps nudging his shoulder against Dean’s to make him stumble to the side, so Dean pushes back harder and then they're on the grass of the back lawn, tumbling and rolling and fighting to get leverage. Dean finally gets the upper hand, swinging himself over Sam's body to shove Sam flat on his back into the grass. Winded gasps of laughter are panting out of both of their mouths as they take in their current state, each of their bodies covered in smudges of dirt with blades of grass sticking all over their chests and cheeks.

It's when Sam's hands curl around the narrow angles of Dean's hip bones that Dean realizes just how badly he needs to pull away, because Sam's wet and his hair is plastered to his forehead and his eyes are hooded in the impending dark of the night and his briefs are clinging tightly to his thighs, both of which are bracketing Dean's lower half. This? This is Dean running into that glass wall so hard that he's gonna feel it for days. He shoves up off of Sam's shoulders to get to his feet and Sam's hands fall to the ground by his sides, where they should be.

Dean doesn’t even attempt to look at Sam’s face, just kicks his brother’s ankle and says, “First dibs on the shower,” before turning and walking up the stairs of the back porch. His shower is quick, just to scrub away the grass from his arms, chest and legs and rinse his hair of lake water. Dean steps out, wraps his towel around his waist and throws his wet briefs over the towel rack before nudging the door open and wandering aimlessly down the hall. He hasn’t had a chance to find the bedrooms yet, so he peeks in each door he passes in hopes of spotting his duffle bag. Dean finds it in the second room he walks into, along with Sam, who is pawing through his backpack.

Dean can’t help but notice that it’s the master bedroom, one giant, inviting king bed being the surface upon which their bags and Sam’s wet ass are sitting on. In out in out, Dean measures his breath as he moves forward and tries not to think about it, reaching out to drag his bag closer to him so he can find fresh clothes.

“It was the first bedroom I came to, that’s all.” Sam’s voice is quiet and a little thick, like when he thinks he’s done something wrong.

Dean looks up, furrowing his brows. Sam’s not meeting his gaze, just keeps running one of the zippers on his backpack up and down in short jerks.

“S’ fine, dude,” Dean moves his eyes back to his bag as he produces a clean t-shirt, underwear and sweatpants. “Can barely sleep without your earth-shattering snores two feet away anyhow.”

Dean pretends not to notice the secret smile that pulls at the corner of Sam’s mouth before Sam’s standing up and declaring the bathroom for his shower. While Sam’s doing that, Dean yanks on his clothes and pads into the kitchen. The meal of champions, Kraft Dinner with cut up hot dogs, is being served into bowls by the time Sam steps into the room smelling of his eucalyptus and spearmint shampoo.

“You’re really pulling out all the stops, aren’t you?” Sam teases as he brushes by Dean to pull out two beers from the fridge. Dean rolls his eyes and tries to subtly breathe in Sam’s scent as it washes over him.

“Shut up and get the forks.” Dean replies easily as he grabs the bowls and sets them down on the coffee table in front of the loveseat facing the giant box of a TV in the small living room adjacent to the kitchen. Sam sets down the beers, tabs already popped open, and flops next to Dean as Dean switches the television on. They should’ve expected to only get four channels out here in the woods. In the end, it’s a tie between watching a documentary on the lives of seagulls or a French soap opera that the TV must be picking up from the Canadian waves. Dean’s still not sure how they ended up deciding on the soap opera, but within twenty minutes, they’re both sitting forward on the edge of the cushions as the older father of the show discovers he has unknowingly been sleeping with his long lost daughter. When the episode ends, Sam turns to Dean with wide, wide eyes and it snaps Dean into action, grumbling about needing lots of beer and a shot of testosterone to wash away the past half hour of his life.

They dump their dirty dishes in the sink to be dealt with later. Sam takes a moment to glance out the window before taking off down the hall towards the rooms. He’s back a minute later with a thick blanket, the duvet from the king bed and a stupidly big smile on his face.

“C’mon, Dean, bring the beers!” Sam’s already halfway out onto the back porch by the time Dean gets his feet moving. They hop down onto the gentle slope of the back lawn and Dean very studiously avoids looking at the spot from their earlier scuffle to his far left. Sam throws the duvet over Dean’s head (what is he, a fucking coat hanger?) so Dean can only assume he’s fluffing out the first blanket as a place for them to lie down. Dean wishes his heart wasn’t punching a bruise into his ribcage. After some shuffling through the grass, Sam whips the duvet off of Dean with a flourish and settles it down on the blanket, just as Dean suspected he would.

There must have been some kind of look on Dean’s face that Sam catches because he’s shrugging and sliding down onto his back underneath the heavy material as he uses a free hand to gesture upwards.

“No clouds.”

Dean lets his head fall back over his shoulders, his stomach twisting deep in his belly because, yeah, it’s a clear night and the sky is a washed out canvas of the darkest blue with spatters of glimmering white stars. There are some faint, faint red ones here and there that Dean’s eye can catch, and he quickly finds the Big Dipper just to the right of where he stands.

“It’s cold, Dean, hurry up!” Sam whines and Dean’s eyes are rolling this time as he sets their two open beer down near Sam’s head before he lifts the duvet and slides in right alongside his brother. Sam’s body heat has just started to seep into the cloth and Dean has to consciously stop himself from closing his eyes to bask in it. Dean hisses in protest when Sam turns on his side and presses his stupidly cold toes press into Dean’s calf.

“Get your icicle feet the hell off’a me!”

“You’re warm!” Sam complains.

“Not anymore!” Dean grumbles back, elbowing Sam in the chest. That makes him roll over onto his back again with a huff.

Dean lets his eyes roam the ceiling of black and white above him, watching as the lights wink in and out of existence. The two of them fall into their rhythm, both of their chests rising and falling together as if breathing from the same pair of lungs. The soundtrack to their stargazing consists of water lapping at the dock, crickets chirping in the trees and the continuous, singular breath that only they share. Time is a forgotten notion; the only indication of the night growing older is the moon arcing high into the sky. For them, there’s no need to speak when all the questions and all the answers are painted above their heads into the night and the light of the half moon is washing Sam’s face in ethereal silver. Dean doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at Sam’s profile instead of the stars, but he’s sure that he’s never felt this deep, smoldering heat seeping through his veins until Sam’s head is turning to meet his gaze and Sam’s hand is searching for his under the blanket. Long fingers slip up Dean’s palm, pushing their way past the webbing between each of Dean’s before hooking over the back of his hand and tightening. Dean’s never felt more at home.

Eventually, Dean’s eyes find the stars again, skirting over the constellations he already knows the names of to make up ones of his own in his head. Then there’s a bright flash in the corner of his vision and he catches the streak of a shooting star. Squeezing Sam’s hand, Dean tracks its path with his finger in the air so Sam can find it too.

“Make a wish.” It’s the first thing Dean’s said in hours, his voice coming out rough and gravelly. Sam shifts onto his side and presses forward until his face is tucked into the hollow between Dean’s neck and shoulder, their hands still entwined.

“Don’t need to,” Sam mumbles sleepily. His lips catch and drag on the vein thrumming under Dean’s skin. Dean watches the shooting star fade away against the black, gone just as quickly as it came. The air in his lungs solidifies, his chest crushing him down into the earth. “You’re right here.”

Sam’s unconscious in less than a minute, his breaths washing slow and even over Dean’s collarbone. It takes Dean much longer to be able to close his eyes and fall asleep. When he finally does, it’s with his nose buried in Sam’s hair and his lips brushing Sam’s forehead.

-

Maybe Dean was ignoring it or maybe he was doing it unconsciously, but by the time he settles into his latest motel in Carson City, Nevada, there’s no denying that over the past month and a half, he has slowly but surely been making his way closer to his brother. Dean can tell himself all he wants that it’s just the hunts he keeps managing to find and that it’s pure coincidence that he’s been edging towards the west coast over a matter of weeks where Sam happens to be attending university (he knows he’s a goddamn liar).

Doesn’t change the fact that Sam’s now only a four hour drive away.

So Dean gets stupid. He’s doing well enough on his own to be able to tackle a black dog single-handedly, to hell with Bobby’s code of having at least two other hunters on any case like this. He enters the graveyard with his shotgun and silver knife, creeping amongst the headstones. When the apparition (one the size of a Great Dane on fucking steroids) knocks him flat on his back and his temple cracks off the side of a rounded piece of granite reading Rest In Peace, Mary Elizabeth, it may finally be sinking in that Dean’s arrogance has probably just gotten him killed.

His stomach is carved into ribbons and he’s choking on his own blood, but as the monstrous dog snarls and opens its jaws for the final blow, Dean lets his eyes find the stars above his head. He feels strangely at peace. Then the crushing weight of the ghostly canine is ripped from his chest, howls of pain punching through the buzzing in Dean’s ears, then there are hands on his wounds and three looming figures in his vision and someone's screaming, it might be him (he feels like his throat is being torn open from the inside out). Blackness creeps up at the edges of Dean's vision and he welcomes it with open arms, a small part of him in the back of his head laughing when he thinks he hears his cell phone blaring as he sinks into unconsciousness.

Waking up is a bitch, mainly because Dean opens his eyes to find a ribbed plastic tube shoved down his throat, he can’t fucking breathe, (where's Sam) and his lungs are spasming, he can’t fucking breathe, (where's Sam) and his stomach is on fire, everything fucking hurts (where’s Sam, Dean just wants his fucking brother) then a needle is punched into the meat of his arm and his body stops listening to him and the blackness is smothering him once more.

Dean dreams of swimming through a pool of galaxies, the stars and planets shifting and sliding over his body with each stroke he takes. He's lying on his back, drifting, when his left hand starts searing, burning, so he lifts it to his face and watches two sets of familiar initials carve themselves in the center of his palm, each stroke ringing with the memory of leather under his knees and a dull knife scratching into a hard surface beneath fabric torn back by eager fingers. The dream ends when Dean floats to the edge, his head tilting back over the lip of the universe, then there’s a brush, just the briefest pressure against his mouth, before its gone and he’s falling into oblivion.

The second time Dean opens his eyes, the tube is gone (thank fuck) and he can practically feel his esophagus bruising with every passing second, but at least he’s not six feet under. His eyes roam the area, taking in his surroundings. Dean finds himself tucked into a starched white hospital bed and dressed in a crinkly blue paper gown (he knows he’s butt naked underneath it too, those bastards). His belongings are tucked away in a clear bag on the table beneath the long window facing the main hall of the hospital. Dean blinks hard to fight the tendrils of sleep tickling the edge of his mind and focuses on the fact that there's a nurse entering his room. She's pretty, has her dark hair knotted in a bun at the nape of her neck and a clean face. Her eyes leisurely flick up to look at his face and move back down to his chart that she’s holding before flying back up to see him better, as if she hadn’t been expecting him to be looking back at her.

“Mr. Winchester!” The nurse is at his side, fiddling with his heart monitor and some of the tubes connected to his inner elbow before she meets his stare more fully. “I’m glad to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

Dean grimaces and she looks sympathetic, thinking it’s because he’s in pain when he’s actually crawling in his skin that he isn’t hidden under the protection of an alias (who the fuck found his real i.d.?).

“Would you like me to up your pain medication dosage?” Her fingers are hovering over a small button hanging from the bag dripping some clear fluid into one of the gazillion tubes connected to him.

“If you’re offering.” Dean croaks, shutting his eyes to swallow as gently as he can down his ruined throat. The nurse complies with a nod before checking some information on his chart, scribbling something in pen and finally closing it with a sad smile.

“You’re extremely lucky, Mr. Winchester. When those three gentlemen brought you in, you were in very bad shape. I’ve never seen a feral dog do anything like that, even one with rabies.” Dean’s eyes find the name tag sitting just below the collar of her yellow scrubs. Maia. “Just so you’re aware, we did give you a rabies shot to be safe since we don’t happen to have any of your medical information on file. Yesterday, when you first woke up, you fought intubation and we were forced to put you back under before you could harm yourself any further. You’ve sustained some serious injuries here, Mr. Winchester: three broken ribs with additional fractures, damage to part of your small intestine and a concussion from where you hit your head. Abdominal surgery does take a good deal of time to heal from, so once you’re able to be released in a day or two, you’re going to have to avoid doing anything strenuous for at least four to six weeks. Do you understand?”

Dean starts to nod until the shooting pain lances behind his eye sockets and through the rest of his skull, holy Christ, that fucking hurts. Gritting his teeth, Dean voices his acknowledgment that yes, he gets it, he’s bruised and battered to all hell. Maia’s sympathy face is back with a small line puckering between her brows as she sighs softly.

“Those guys, the ones who brought me in-” Dean shifts a little and sucks in a painful breath, motherfuck, his ribs are on fire, don’t do that again. “Who were they?”

“I heard that they were hunting down that dog that attacked you. Apparently it’s the same one the authorities think mauled those poor children just last week. God knows what possessed them to go and do it late at night like that, but then again…” Maia tilts her head, looking at Dean with a question in her eyes.

“Was visiting an old friend,” Dean grunts, closing his eyes against the lie leaving his tongue. “I’m from outta town and was just passin’ through. Thought I’d stop by to pay my respects.”

Maia hums and he can’t tell if she buys it or not because she’s leaning over him to adjust something above his head that he can’t see. When she stands up straight again, her face is carefully neutral with a small smile.

“You get some rest now, honey,” Maia gently pats his hand that’s lying on the blanket covering his legs. “It’s been a long couple of days for you.”

“What, no harassing me about paperwork on my deathbed?” Dean asks carefully, projecting a falsely positive tone as he tries to assess whether he needs to be ready to haul his ass out of here before the insurance papers land in his lap. The bright smile that breaks across Maia’s face is disarming and Dean can’t help but narrow his eyes at her response (because really, there is nothing that fucking fantastic about paperwork).

“You don’t have to worry about that, sweetheart,” Maia says as she starts to walk from the room, something fond leaking from her eyes as she pauses and regards Dean from the doorway. “Your boyfriend already took care of all of that for you.”

Dean hasn’t exactly been keeping track of the dates as of late, but he’s pretty fucking sure it isn’t April Fool’s Day.

“One of the gentlemen that brought you in was on the phone with him when you arrived and he drove all the way here from California, bless his heart. Didn’t leave your side for a second after you got out of surgery. I had to send him to his hotel to rest just an hour ago. He hadn’t slept a wink since he first sat in that chair.” Maia nods at Dean’s left side. Dean very, very slowly turns his head to see a plastic chair pulled up right to the edge of his bed. He closes his eyes to focus on pulling air in and out, because if he thought breathing with broken and fractured ribs was hard, well, this was ten times fucking worse. If Maia notices Dean’s heart rate monitor rising in pitch, she doesn’t say anything.

Dean didn’t even know he fell asleep until he realizes his vision is dark and someone is holding his hand. His first instinct is to stiffen and open his eyes to see who it is, but he knows who it is, who is he fucking kidding? So Dean tries to keep his breaths shallow and even and doesn’t let his eyes flutter because he’s not ready to look Sam in the face just yet, hasn’t had enough time to prepare and work up to everything he needs to say to his brother.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Dean.”

Dean’s breath stutters only once before he forces himself to continue his facade, this is bedside talk, he doesn’t know Dean’s awake, in out in out in out. The hand squeezing Dean’s raises and pushes Dean’s fingers up and away before a pair of lips press tightly into the center of Dean’s palm. It burns and Dean struggles to recall the glimmer of a memory or a dream before the lips are moving, words gusting onto his sensitive skin.

“Such a fucking idiot. A black dog, by yourself? Fucking idiot.”

Okay, damn, you’ve made your point, Sam.

Sam’s breath is a shaky sigh, his nose pressing up the line of Dean’s thumb.

“I last told you that I didn’t want to leave you.” It’s a murmur and it’s making the blood pound behind Dean’s eyes and it fucking hurts. “You’re supposed to not want to leave me either, Dean. Jesus, what the fuck were you thinking?”

He wasn’t, hadn’t been thinking, just needed to get into the melee to get all of this the fuck off of his mind because it felt like it was going to explode on a good day, but now his head actually feels like it’s going to explode and all of Dean’s thoughts and feelings and what the fuck ever else will pour over the bleached white sheets of the bed and stain them black. Dean doesn’t want to stain Sam black.

Sam’s fingers tap lightly on the back of Dean’s hand, in no discernible rhythm, just an absent touch, and every hit of the pad of his forefinger jars Dean’s heart a little harder each time. He falls silent after that, just sitting at Dean’s side, and Dean pretends he is asleep but in reality, he’s never been more awake in his entire life.

The lull that settles over them is so gentle and soft that Dean is about to drift into actual unconsciousness. But then he hears Sam’s chair scrape back against the tile and the mattress next to his shoulder depresses as Sam leans forward, what the fuck is he doing, then Sam’s mouth is nudging his, fusing their lips together in a tight, hot line. Dean’s pulse skyrockets, and his heart monitor starts going haywire, the jig is up. Opens his eyes and starts to count the long black eyelashes that sweep the top of Sam’s cheekbone before they lift up to reveal two pools of hazel. Sam pulls back an inch or so and just stares at Dean staring at him. Dean’s lungs are screaming and his sides are on fire because he’s breathing so harshly and he wishes his heart would calm down, calm the fuck down, and then Sam ducks in again and Dean thinks he’s going into cardiac arrest.

The kiss is brief but Dean can feel the love on the line of Sam’s mouth. It’s simple, it’s chaste, and it’s over before Dean is able to get a taste of Sam on his tongue, but maybe it’s for the best that he doesn’t or else he’s never going to be able to stop wanting it (as if he hasn’t wanted it for most of his life already, he’s not kidding anyone, not even himself). Sam’s lips disappear but Dean’s eyes stay closed as he tries to regulate his breathing and come back to himself and restrain himself from smashing a fist into his heart rate monitor, and by the time they open again, Sam’s gone.

God apparently has some good graces left, because Dean’s able to unplug every wire, tube and sticker from his arms and chest without some kind of alarm going off and can get to his feet. He only feels like he’s going to pass out twice on his way to grab his bag of belongings and the path to the elevator directly across from his room is clear. Pulling on clothes as the metal box shoots down four floors isn’t easy, but he manages and, alright, maybe he throws up in his mouth a little at his stomach burning wildly, but it’s okay. When he makes it out to the parking lot, the Impala is sitting pretty front and center like she was waiting for him to get off his ass and come back to her. Figures that Sam would have gone to find her. He finds the keys in the clear bag and very, very, very fucking gingerly slides into the driver’s seat. Sam’s voice rings in his head, reminds him that concussed people shouldn’t operate heavy machinery for blahblah amount of days. Shut up, Sam.

“Bobby?” Dean gently tucks his cell phone between his head and his shoulder as he eases the Impala into reverse. “You happen to be near the state of Nevada?”

-

Bobby Singer is a good man and a good doctor. He sets Dean up in one of his safehouses that borders Nevada and Utah and nurses him back to health, even if he rips Dean a new one every day during the length of his stay for ever thinking he could take on a black dog alone, ya goddamn idjit, gonna be the death of me, you and your father, now get back to bed, no you can’t have a goddamn beer. Bobby doesn’t have to ask why Dean chose to contact him over contacting John; if John ever found out that Dean tried to take on something like this with no backup, Dean would be bedridden for more than just a month.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Dean racks up five unheard voicemails and twelve missed calls. He’s not going to check a single one because he knows that phone number and for the moment, Dean’s still trying to figure out how he’s supposed to live his daily life now that he knows what Sam’s mouth feels like. Dean constantly finds himself watching Bobby, trying to see some hint of disgust or horror or fucking something to show that he can see Dean’s sin scrawled in thick black lines all over his face. To him, there’s a goddamn neon sign hanging over his head that declares him as a brother-loving abomination. But nope, it’s business as usual with Bobby, doesn’t notice a goddamn thing, just has all of his calls forwarded to the multitude of cell phones that litter the dining room table amongst the musty books and empty beer bottles. He reminds Dean to take his pain medicine, shoves him into bed early each night, refuses to let Dean touch any liquor and insists every single day that Dean call his father and brother. It’s a fight he never wins.

Dean’s scars are bright pink healing lines across his abdomen when Bobby announces he’s taking his leave a month and a half after he met up with Dean from the hospital. Dean promises to keep in touch, Bobby tells him not to lie, he didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday, y’know, and then he’s gone.

Suddenly Dean’s cell phone seems very interesting, the dark plastic laying innocently on the pages of an open book he hadn't gotten around to putting away yet. Dean’s fingers move on their own accord as he sits at the table, and before he knows it, he's dialling up his voicemail and putting it on speakerphone. He closes his eyes, rests his forehead on the cool wood and listens.

“I hope you pulled every single one of your stitches on your way out, you asshole.” Beep. Sam will be happy to know that that’s exactly what happened.

“Damn it, Dean, where are you? Are you in a fucking ditch somewhere? Pick up your fucking phone.” Beep.

“I just want to know you’re okay, you fucking jerk.” Beep.

“I called Bobby. He said you’re doing alright, stubborn as always. Also said he’s not letting you drink any alcohol. You’re probably climbing the walls.” A beat of silence. “Wish I could hear your voice.” Beep.

“Sorry for kissing you.” Slurring. He’s drunk. Dean wishes he was drunk. “Sorry for-Just wanted to show you. Y’know? You’re everything, Dean. Everything to me.” Bottles clinking. Dean presses his forehead into the tabletop harder, trying to grind away the words that are branding themselves in his mind. “S’ okay if you don’t call back. Accepted it, me bein’ fucked up and all. S’ okay. S’ okay, Dean.” Beep.

Dean’s peeling out of the driveway before the automated voice can ask him if he wants to save or delete this message.

-

Okay, so Dean may have distracted the academic advisor at Stanford by saying someone pulled a knife on another student in the middle of the quad to be able to hack into her computer and pull up Sam's class schedule. And he may have booked a motel just down the street from Sam's apartment building. And he may currently be leaning against the passenger door of the Impala with his eyes trained on the staircase leading down from one of the lecture halls, scouring the crowd of students for his six foot three not-so-little brother.

It's warm today in California and Dean's leather jacket is in the backseat. It makes his skin crawl, even in the oppressive heat, because it's like he doesn't have an outer shell to protect him from the curious, prying eyes scanning down the length of his body. His arms crossed tight across his chest, even though it’s making his sweaty t-shirt stick to him in a really gross way, Dean levels a glare at anyone who has the balls to stare at him a little too long, effectively sending them booking it in the opposite direction.

Dean's always known he has some sort of special radar when it comes to Sam, but that doesn't stop him from being surprised at his ability to catch Sam's laughter from across the courtyard just as he steps out into the sunshine. Backpack slung low on his back, only one strap over his shoulder, hair sweeping across his forehead (needs another haircut) and smiling down at a short blonde girl. Dean's halfway across the grass before he even realizes it, his hands curled into fists at his side as he strides forward, his mind sinking into autopilot as he cuts in front of Sam's path down the stairs. He’s almost there, three feet and closing, Sam’s stepping onto the flat ground at the bottom of the staircase now, then he finally looks up just in time for Dean’s hands to grasp either side of his face and yank Sam down into a bruising kiss.

This was easily the worst idea Dean has ever had in his life, even more so than taking on the black dog by himself because right now they’re in the most open, most public area of the Stanford University campus and there’s a girl at Sam’s side who is probably gaping at them, but Dean can’t even begin to focus on thinking of anything else other than Sam and Sam’s mouth burning against his and Sam’s smooth jaw under his fingers, it’s all Sam, it’s all he’s ever wanted, and he’s right here. Dean stumbles forward a little, leaning too much on his tiptoes to reach past those sparse few inches he was never able to gain, and Sam’s hands are there on his hips, steadying him. His fingers flex against Dean’s waist before decidedly tightening and there’s no mistaking that Dean’s being yanked forward now. His muffled protest is smothered by Sam’s lips which are parting and pushing at Dean’s, and Jesus Christ, Sam’s tongue is lapping forward to get into Dean’s mouth, it’s not like Dean’s got any semblance of self-restraint right now anyways, so he opens up and welcomes his brother in. Sam’s breaths are breaking harshly from his nose against the top of Dean’s cheek, making this all that much more real, this isn’t a dream, it’s Sam and he’s sucking on Dean’s tongue and Dean may have just whined at the way his little brother changes the angles of their heads before crashing their mouths back together.

It’s when a loud chorus of catcalls and sharp whistles cut into his ears that Dean tries to gather himself enough to pull away. Settling back onto his heels, Dean opens his eyes and waits until Sam’s open too, both of them panting harshly. Dean can feel Sam’s hands trembling through the thin cotton of his shirt and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make his heart twist like all hell in his chest. Ignoring their audience, Dean holds his brother’s gaze, his fingers tight on Sam’s cheeks.

“I’m sorry. For everything. Okay? You gotta give me a chance to explain-”

“Okay,” Sam is nodding, fast and jerky, and that’s Sammy, quick to forgive Dean for all the shit he’s put Sam through these past few weeks, even if he doesn’t deserve it (he doesn’t deserve it, not at fucking all) and it makes Dean feel that much worse. Sam’s shimmering hazel eyes flicker fast between both of Dean’s as he continues. “Yeah, Dean. Okay.”

Dean takes a second to glance to his left and right, dropping his hands from his brother and letting his usual irritated mask slide over his face as he notices there’s far more people than he expected in a semi-circle around them.

“You wanna get out of here?” Dean grunts, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

Sam’s responding smile could light up the night of a new moon, it’s so bright.

Dean’s spinning on his heel and taking his time picking through the crowd to get back onto the main path that leads right to his car. He only glances over his shoulder once to find Sam, cheeks pleasantly flushed, speaking quickly to the blonde girl who was the unfortunate third wheel in their short but heated make out session. She looks flustered and shocked and can’t keep her mouth from gawking open at whatever Sam is saying to her. Sam gives up with a wave of his hand and turns away to lope after Dean, falling into step with him easily as they cross the road and open the doors of the Impala. Hearing two doors squeak open and slam shut rocks the inside of Dean’s soul with an infinite sense of ‘this is how it should be’. Leaning forward slightly, Dean turns the engine over and lifts his head to look at his brother.

Sam’s just sitting there, staring back, with his legs sprawled all the fuck over the place as if he never left. It’s like the missing piece of the puzzle has finally fallen into place, the gears have stopped grinding in opposite directions and have shifted back into sequence, the second half of Dean’s heart has finally climbed back into the hollow cave of his chest. Dean pulls onto the road and guns it to his motel with a smile on his face and the taste of Sam on his tongue.

-

It’s not as easy as Dean thought it would be, that’s for sure. Dean’s sitting on the edge of his bed with his legs open, his hands clasped and hanging between his knees. Sam’s opposite him on the other bed (Dean had got two queens out of habit, hadn’t even thought about it until he’d walked in to put his stuff down) and has his chin propped on his fists, elbows on the top of his thighs.

Where the fuck does he even start?

“I shouldn’t have left,” Dean closes his eyes and brings a hand up to rub vigorously at his eyelids. Seems like a good enough place to begin. “The hospital, I mean.”

“No,” Sam agrees, faint irritation tinging his voice. “You shouldn’t have. Your injuries were major, Dean. You should have been resting for at least a few more days before trying to move, but no, you had to go and walk out of a hospital and drive several hours away.”

“Sorry,” Dean snaps, his head lifting. “I was a little overwhelmed by the fact that my little brother had just kissed me. That might’ve had something to do with it.”

Sam’s mouth is a hard line and his eyes are flint. Dean feels like he’s the bundle of straw about to catch fire from the sparks that are flying from the rocks in his gaze. Dean looks away (coward, fucking coward).

“I think I know the feeling, seeing as you just made out with me in the middle of my campus quad in front of the girl I just started dating.”

Dean’s throat seizes and his hand actually rises to wrap around his neck as he drags his gaze back up to Sam’s face. Can’t breathe.

“You-she-”

“Her name’s Jess,” Sam blinks slowly, his face too neutral and calm to be too torn up about whatever he said to her before he followed Dean into the Impala. “Don’t have a coronary. It’d only been a couple of dates.” Sam leans back a bit to rub his palms against the leg of his jeans.

“Shit,” Dean swears, palming his face. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, a thoughtful look passing over his features. “I never thought my brother would make out with me in the middle of my quad either.”

“Shut up,” Dean snaps roughly. Fuck, this was hard, this whole 'feelings' thing. Fucking hate this shit. It’s his inner defenses flaring that make his next words sharp and biting. “You’re the one who started all of this, Sam! What the fuck were you thinking, calling me like that? Where do you get off on saying all that crap to me when you’re the one who blew outta town the moment that acceptance letter landed on our dining room goddamn table?” Dean’s face is flushing on principle, the old feelings of fear and desperation and betrayal that had been buried under layers and layers of cement now clawing their way through the rubble to surface once more. “Leaving me that message, saying that you w-” Dean’s voice catches in his throat as he takes in Sam’s chest, rising and falling rapidly, and the way his hands are fisted in the duvet he’s sitting on.

“Saying that I what?” Sam’s voice is low and smooth, a silken challenge, sliding down Dean’s bare arms to leave a trail of goosebumps. “That I wanted you?”

“Yeah,” Dean rasps, unable to stop it all from tumbling out of his mouth as he says, “Saying that you wanted me. Did you get off on that, Sammy, practically moaning that shit into my ear?”

Dean meant it sarcastically, or maybe he didn’t, maybe he really wanted to know if that moan at the end of the first voicemail meant anything more. Either way, there’s something about the way Sam tilts his head, the way his pupils have suddenly seemed to swallow away most of the familiar circle of hazel, the way he’s leaning forward into Dean’s space with an amount of confidence he didn’t possess before he left for Stanford. It catches Dean off guard, makes a shiver slip down his spine, especially when he watches Sam chew on his bottom lip, a flash of white teeth peeking from underneath the dark pink top lip.

"You really wanna know?"

Four words punch him right in the gut and all the air in his lungs are gone. Dean's mind reels for a moment as he runs his eyes over his brother's face and posture. These are some pretty big signals that Sam's flashing his way, and if he was a good big brother, he wouldn't rise to the bait. Maybe it's the lingering taste of Sam in Dean's mouth that makes him throw every last reservation he's been holding onto out the window.

"Yeah, Sam. I want to know." Dean's tone has dropped into the sensual range he usually reserves for the girls he finds at the bar. But this is for Sam. This is for his little brother. Somehow that makes the heat pooling in his lower abdomen swirl even hotter.

Sam's eyes run down the length of Dean's body before he's getting to his feet. He steps forward in the small space between the beds, splays a hand over Dean's chest and pushes, effectively knocking Dean down onto his back. Bouncing a little from the springs, Dean starts to get his elbows underneath him to prop himself up until Sam's hand is there again, shoving Dean flat once more, just hard enough that it makes one of Dean's still-healing ribs twinge. One of Dean's hands flies up to wrap around Sam’s wrist, tightening even further when Sam's knees sink into the bed to bracket around Dean's right thigh.

"It was your voice," Sam says, his eyes hooded and dark in the pale light of the room. "Thinking of what you'd say back." Sam settles his weight more fully down onto Dean's leg, both of his hands on Dean's chest now. "What I wanted you to say back."

The room is shrinking, the only things Dean can possibly begin to be aware of being the bed beneath him and the boy above him. With shaking fingers, Dean reaches up to trace the top of Sam's jeans before hooking into two of his belt loops, jerking Sam's hips down to rut against the top of his thigh. Both of them suck in a breath at the feeling, Sam’s fingers becoming claws that dig deep into the material of Dean’s shirt.

"What’d you do, Sammy?" Dean eggs him on before biting his bottom lip to hold back a groan as he feels Sam harden through the confines of his jeans, his own arousal spiking through his veins. A small whine hitches out of Sam’s throat and, fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever heard. "Tell me what you did."

Sam’s eyes flash before he jerks forward, his lips connecting on the side of Dean’s neck, soft and wet and catching on skin until they find his pulse and latch on. Dean throws his head back, just give Sam what he needs, before a strangled noise breaks out of his mouth as Sam shoves them both further up the bed so Sam can drape himself along the length of Dean’s body. The following drag of Sam’s hips leaves them both breathless, Dean’s hands flying to Sam’s hair and Sam’s moving to palm hotly over Dean’s ribs.

“I was in bed, alone,” Sam pants into his throat and it takes everything in Dean to stop his eyes from rolling back into his head at the scene spreading itself out in his mind’s eye, coupled with the feeling of his brother’s body hot and hard against his in reality. “Couldn't stop thinking about what you'd feel like under me.” Sam gazes up at Dean through a fan of black lashes, his eyes glinting with promise. "Or on top of me."

“Fuck, Sammy.” Dean chokes as Sam bites down not so gently at the place where his neck meets his shoulder. Sam’s crotch is slowly dragging against Dean’s in a loose rhythm, as if it’s on instinct more than concentrated thought, and Dean’s so hard he can barely see straight, can’t believe that this is really fucking happening. He should be freaking the fuck out right now that his baby brother is rubbing off on his hip, but then again, he’s the one opening his mouth to spill dirty, silken words into the hair brushing his chin.

“I just kept imagining you here, moving against me, just like this,” Sam continues, his voice jagged as it washes over Dean’s collarbone now, lips settling into the hollow of Dean’s throat. He rolls his hips to make his point and Dean’s grip in his hair tightens. “Could hear you moaning in my ear, Dean, I just wanted you here so fucking bad.”

“Sammy-” Dean can’t take it anymore, needs to get Sam back in his mouth, so he yanks at the strands of Sam’s hair until his head lifts enough for Dean to kiss him hard enough to hurt. It’s a tangled mess of tongues and teeth and it’s the only thing keeping Dean grounded here on earth because this, what’s happening right now, he couldn’t have ever begun to imagine this being anything other than a dream. But it’s Sam moaning against his tongue and it’s Sam grinding down into Dean’s hipbone and working his thigh up into Dean’s crotch and it’s Sam shoving Dean’s shirt up and up and up until it’s caught under his armpits in his attempt to rip it over Dean’s head. Dean cusses into Sam’s mouth, pulls back just enough to yank it off, the material catching and dragging on his chin and nose. The moment it’s gone, Sam’s mouth is back in full force, pushing and nipping and licking at Dean’s lips like they’re the last thing he ever wants to taste in the world.

Sam's hands stutter across Dean's stomach and then stop. His mouth is gone a moment later, Dean protesting with a wordless noise as he opens his eyes. He finds Sam sitting back and staring as his fingers run over the pink scars lining the expanse of Dean's abdomen, his brows furrowed. Goosebumps follow the track of his fingertips against Dean’s skin, chills rolling down Dean’s body from head to toe. Silently, Dean edges up onto his elbows so he can watch Sam's face, his heart twisting guiltily at the worry washing over his brother's features.

"You're okay, right?" Sam's question is quiet and hesitant, all of the building sexual tension starting to fade away in the place of this charged moment of vulnerability, his eyes still running over the ghosts of Dean's wounds.

Dean nods, reaches up to clasp a hand around the back of Sam's neck.

"I'm okay, Sammy," Dean murmurs as he leans up to press his lips to Sam's flushed cheek. "I'm a fucking idiot, but I'm okay."

Sam seems to accept this, nodding before dragging his mouth along Dean’s jaw to pull him into a kiss. This one is gentle, not as filled with desperation as their last two overcharged clashes of lip on lip. It’s more of a promise for the past, the present and the future, a recognition that they had always been on this path, it’d just taken them a little longer than expected.

Words are lost after that, giving way to touches that speak volumes against each other's skin. They already know the stories behind the callouses on Dean's fingertips, already know the memory hidden underneath the faint curved scar on Sam's shoulder from when he was thrown out a window by a poltergeist when he was fourteen. In these next hours, they map out a new knowledge for the parts of one other that they've never seen or touched before, how soft the skin is in the curve at the bottom of Sam's spine, the one sensitive spot just above Dean’s hipbone that makes him buck and swear, and how natural it feels after that first push, as if Dean is sliding home. Dean had never thought a person could be the house for his soul, but he should have known because, really, where else could he lay himself out this bare, this broken and still have a place of comfort after exposing himself so freely? Who else would it be? There’s never going to be another Sam. Not for him.

They rise together, they fall together, and Dean swears that the earth is shaking with the same revelation that he’s having, the aftershocks still rocking him physically and mentally as he and Sam lay side by side on their backs. The only sound in the room is a shared set of lungs and a pair of hearts beating in time. Dean doesn't want to hear anything else for the rest of his life. 

When Sam rolls over and presses up against Dean's side, Dean welcomes it, closing his eyes as he wraps his arm around Sam's shoulders and pulls in tight. He can feel Sam nuzzle his face into the hollow between Dean's shoulder and neck, a blanket of warmth seeping into his bones as Sam's soft breaths wash over his collarbone. It doesn't take him long to fall asleep this time, and when he does, it’s with his nose buried in Sam’s hair and his lips brushing Sam’s forehead.


End file.
